


Deep Desperation

by Craftswithkitten



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:35:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29351283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Craftswithkitten/pseuds/Craftswithkitten
Summary: Prior season 3. Season 4 will never exist in my mind.How many times does John have to watch Sherlock die? After John moves back in with Sherlock, he finds that Sherlock's death is all he can think about. But Sherlock doesn't want to be pitied, and watching John tip-toe around him is hurting more than he thought it would. Will they ever admit to how they feel?Spoiler, of course they will! *johnlock*(Villain Mary)
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 26





	Deep Desperation

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story *years* ago! But it just felt wrong to not post it, so enjoy!
> 
> I also had this song on repeat while writing, to really bring out the feels! Lament- Balmorhea

John sat up in his bed, frustration and anxiety settling deep in his stomach. His clock glowed an angry red. He couldn't remember the last time he had been able to sleep through the night, unable to sleep through the dark images his mind conjured. They filled him with a deep sense of disgust- Sherlock's face twisted with agony and the stark contrast of his wife's cold gaze. He tried to push away the memories of Sherlock's convulsing body, trembling in pain, and so very near to death. Pale skin. Hitched breathes stopped short. And then, the terrible squeal of the defibrillator.

He was overcome by the overwhelming realization that if Sherlock had died, it would've been entirely his fault. How could he have taken so much pride in being a Doctor, and yet not notice the signs? Why couldn't he see the severe stress his friend's body was going through- blood loss, shock, and pain- so much pain.

John breathed in deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut tight. He fought back tears as anxiety swelled in his chest, and painful memories played out once more. It'd been four days since Sherlock had been released from the hospital, deemed stable enough to go home after an extensive stay in the ICU. After the internal bleeding had finally stopped and his vitals had remained stable long enough that he could be taken off of the machines. It was then, when Sherlock was once again fighting for his life on a hospital gurney- bags of blood being pumped into him during surgery, his heart being shocked back life, his flesh being cut open and resewn- that John had to come to grips with the fact that his wife had been the very reason Sherlock was dying- _again_ \- and he had nearly let it happen.

He needed a glass of water.

John sighed again as he made his way down the stairs that lead from his room, willing forward his soldier steady resolve, even as his footsteps faultered when he reached the spot where he had watched paramedics resuscitate his friend.

He couldn't go back to the apartment he shared with his lying wife. However, it was growing increasingly difficult to stay at B221 Baker Street. It held the same air of heaviness that had drove John from the flat when he thought he had witnessed Sherlock's suicide. The irony that he had nearly witnessed him die for a third time, only served as a painful reminder of just how incompetent he felt, and how desperately he needed Sherlock in his life.  
  


Sherlock stood by the window, watching the empty street below him; cradling the deep, gnawing pain that sat within his abdomen. The pain and restless thoughts made sleep nearly impossible. His mind picked away at every detail of the last weeks, but his thoughts continued to circle back to a singular moment. As Sherlock had laid dying on the floor and his mind had attempted to retreat into his mind palace, only John had kept him focused on reality. Just moments before his world darkened and he slipped into unconsciousness, he had locked eyes with John. John had looked wildly desperate. And as his vision began to fade, Sherlock had wished he could reach out, touch John, tell him it would be ok.

Sherlock tucked the memory away, down a damp and dark corridor of his mind palace. Hiding away the memory was simple, but the feelings of desperation, longing, and desire wouldn't be so easily subdued.

Sherlock had always had a flame of desire burning for John, and unlike the small sparks of attraction he had felt for Adlene Adler, the admiration and devotion he felt for John couldn't be picked apart by time or logic. In fact, the time spent away from John had only served as a catalyst for his growing yearnings for John. What was once a manageable flame of desire had turned into a wildfire that had threaten to consume him, and despite the circumstances that had played themselves out, refused to be quelled.

His breath left a small puff of condensation on the cold window as he sighed and pulled his arm closer to his abdomen, cradling the deep gnawing sadness within him. And when Sherlock saw John's reflection through the glass, he watched. He watched as John's body went rigid, staring into the emptiness. His mind played the picture in John's imagination- _EMTs scrambling around a writhing, pale body. Chaos… Helplessness..._

John blinked away the stinging in his eyes when he heard his name whispered by the window.

"Oh, Sherlock. Didn't see you there." He pulled a strained smile across his face and leveled out his shoulders- his Soldier's stance. "Cuppa tea?" He asked, gesturing towards the kitchen.

"No, thank you," Sherlock replied, studying John's face. _The dark circles around his eyes. The slight pinch of his brow. And the guilt- as obvious as a neon sign- that clouded John's vision._

"Suit yourself," John shrugged his shoulders as he walked away. But moments later returned with two cups in hand.

_Guilt- clear as day and it was dreadful_.

"I thought you could use some," John shrugged as he handed Sherlock a steaming mug.

John turned toward the window and sipped his tea quietly. Simply standing by Sherlock was enough to ease some of John's troubled thoughts. Still, John felt an anxiety like static in the air. Sherlock could feel it too. Thick and charged with words unspoken, hidden behind heavy tongues and heavier hearts. It angered Sherlock. He wasn't a man to be pitied, least of all from John.

"My parents would've been in attendance- "John's look of confusion quickly turned to frustration and disbelief as Sherlock continued- "at my funeral you keep imagining."

For a moment John said nothing, simply stared with his eyebrows raised high.

"Right. Well. Isn't that brilliant? At least this time I'd know it's real, huh?" John huffed. He stared down at the city street and laughed bitterly, his heart clenching painfully. Sherlock had been standing in this very spot when Moriarty had first bombed their flat. When the first sickening realization struck him. When he began to let the idea sink in, that Sherlock was not entirely indestructible. Of course, Sherlock had been perfectly well- _smug, in fact_ \- when John had returned. And for a long while, John was perfectly content with the idea that Sherlock was, in fact, indestructible, unkillable, and most of all, infallible.

His voice faltered around the words that followed. "Won't be waiting for a sign that never comes."

A wave of realization washed over Sherlock. He looked down at his tea, "John, I- I didn't mean-"

This reaction was not what he had intended. Truthfully, he hadn't known what he'd expected. He was simply so tired of watching John still living in that moment. He was alive and as healthy as one could be, given the circumstances. He just wanted that to be enough for John.

"John, I am sorry."

But John didn't reply. Instead, they stood in silence, watching the grey red sky and the mist that dampened the city. And for a long while neither of them spoke.

The deep gnawing returned to Sherlock's chest, bringing with it the desperation and longing he fought to control. So many things had changed between them since ' _The Fall_.' It seemed like a great chasm divided them.

_Why?_

Wasn't that what John had asked him, that first night he returned? Sherlock had never told him why.

_Why hadn't he told him?_

Was he ashamed? Had wanted to impress him? Too embarrassed by the initial greeting and too hurt by the sudden proposal. Maybe he could tell him now, shout across the void and reach out to him, even for a moment? He grimaced against the ache.

"John," Sherlock's voice was barely above a whisper, his gaze focused on something unseen. "I don't know how to tell you. I never have... known how to tell you. But, it couldn't have been you..."

Beside him John shifted, the lights of a passing car illuminating them both for a moment as he lifted his gaze to meet John's. The words sounded harsh as they left his parted lips. "Of everyone I stood a chance to lose, I couldn't have lost you."

He lowered his gaze, the weight of John's stare proving too much. "I am aware of how hypocritical that sounds, but it's the truth nonetheless. It's... it's the reason why- why I- Had they suspected for a moment... even for a moment... they would have-" he grit his teeth to keep the words at bay- "it couldn't have been you that I lost, John."

Sherlock winced as he placed his cup on the window sill, his hands trembling from the small confession. Pangs of desire surged painfully in his chest and he turned away from John, focusing instead on the halo of mist surrounding a nearby streetlight. For a long while the only response was silence.

Finally John spoke, "what am I supposed to say to that, Sherlock?"

The silence lingered, and together they watched, until the mist became a heavy pattering of rain and their tea grew cold.

Frustration and pain moved like a tide, bringing with it feelings John had fought so hard to bury. It just didn't seem fair, for Sherlock to be so sure of his choices, while he lost his footing with every step he took. But how could Sherlock know just how deep the wound ran? Sherlock- _the machine_ \- who didn't feel things the way he felt them. But even as he thought them, the words felt wrong. Sherlock was no machine. Machines don't self sacrifice- not for men like him. Sherlock was no machine. He was flesh and blood and joy and disappointment and exhilaration and everything that made John's heart twist with longing. Machines aren't great men, and Sherlock was the greatest man he knew. He breathed in hard through his nose. He was flesh and blood... just flesh and blood and nearly gone once again.

"This- this is difficult for me," his voice cut across the silence, straining against the lump in his throat as he continued, "I wanted you back so badly, and I've made so many mistakes while you were gone."

Sherlock shifted beside him, "John-"

"No- just… let me talk... I was so lost. I nearly lost you again." John could feel the fear returning as he spoke, "everything that's happened... and I almost lost you again." His fingers flexed around his mug as he fought to push the panic of the memories aside. "I should've known. I should've been better and instead, I was so clouded by anger that I nearly lost you again." He closed his eyes against the pain choking his words.

"John..." Sherlock reached out, patting John's shoulder, floundering in his attempt to comfort, before gently swiping his thumb over John's cheekbone. John's eyes shot open, wet and intense. And for a singular moment it felt as though the chasm between them had shifted, and they were finally standing on even ground.

But it was too much, and John let out a short dry laugh, "well then, it's no wonder people've gotten the wrong idea about us."

He regretted the words as soon as they passed his lips. Sherlock, who moments before had stepped closer to John, now stepped away, pulling his hand away as if he'd been stung. Anguish flashed across Sherlock's face for a moment so fleeting, John questioned if it had just been imagined. And then, just as quickly, Sherlock relaxed his face into his familiar schooled expression. His voice was hollow as he spoke.

"Thank you, for the tea, John. It was lovely, but I should go lay down."

As he turned to walk away, Sherlock suppressed a shudder of pain, as a deep, intense heartache washed over him. And as his body strained with tension, his stitches pulled painfully against his flesh. He let out a startled gasp as he stumbled.

"Sherlock!" John lunged forward, grabbing Sherlock to support him, pressing his chest against Sherlock, one hand supporting his shoulder, while his other hand held firmly on his waist.

"You alright?" Panic laced John's voice as Sherlock's hand twisted the front fabric of John's shirt.

"'m fine..." Sherlock huffed softly.

They were incredibly close. A quiet pause passed between them before John whispered, "your stitches may have pulled. Let me have a look." He cleared his throat around the last word, as he felt the small puff of Sherlock's breath across his cheek.

"'m ok, John," Sherlock mumbled. He watched John's eyelashes flutter against his breath.

"But I'm a doctor…"John argued weakly. Sherlock would've laughed at the obviousness of the statement, had his mind not been so completely occupied with just trying to breath again.

In the grey light he could see John's pulse beating violently, the cords of his neck tight with tension. He chewed nervously at his lip as John's hand moved from his hip to the corner of his shirt, gently lifting the thin fabric and to examin the wound. John touched him softly, his fingers hovering over bruised flesh.

"You shouldn't stand for so long," John told him in a voice so quiet it could barely be heard over the rain. "You'll cause your body undue stress."

John breathed hard. He should've let go by now, stepped away from Sherlock, and let him finish his retreat. Instead, John looked up at the hand Sherlock had twisted in his shirt, his eyes tracing the tendons of his forearm to the white knuckles of his fist. And from where Sherlock's hand was pressed against him, John felt a warmth of desire trickling through his blood. A dark heat pooled in his belly as the silence lingered between them. He knew he should let go, but he tightened his grip on Sherlock's shoulder, a sickening sadness creeping into his thoughts.

Still, the silence stretched out between them. Sherlock grit his teeth against the need to breath. Holding his breath and tightening his hold on John's night shirt as he felt John's fingers slide along his collar, searing hot against his skin, moving gently upwards until they rested against the curve of his jaw. He gazed down at John, who's eyes were once again focused on Sherlock's hand-- his thumb stroking at the cloth.

Each subtle movement John felt through his thin night shirt, and it was kindling a warmth inside of him that he had thought he'd never feel again. So when Sherlock's hand tugged at him ever so gently, their bodies suddenly so close that the air he breathed was Sherlock, John struggled to suppressed the quiet moan that threatened to escape him. And John struggled against the deep desperation to close the distance between them. Instead he pressed his forehead against Sherlock's cheek, his fingers grabbing at Sherlock's jaw.

"John?" Sherlock whispered his name like a secret.

He could smell the faint aroma of John's shampoo. See the scattered grey in his hair against the dim red light. A tiny intake of breath, no more than a tremor, and then Sherlock knew- it seemed so suddenly obvious- John was going to kiss him. He groaned as John both pushed and pulled at him, closing his eyes and breathing in, wanting desperately to turn his head the fraction it would take to close the distance between them. But he waited, this was entirely up to John.

"Sherlock-" John spoke, finally, against the curve of his neck. Even to Sherlock his voice sounded pained. And as Sherlock pulled him closer, he flinched against the sharp pangs of desire surging through him. "It hurts. Sherlock, it hurts-"

"Then fix it John. Make it stop hurting- for the both of us."

A moment passed without John speaking.

Sherlock had said the wrong thing, he was sure of it. He felt panic and regret blooming in his chest, as his mind reanalyzed John's words.

But then John did the unthinkable.

He pressed his mouth to Sherlock's lips; a sharp inhale of desperation. And then again, gentle and slow.

The room felt intensely quiet, save for the rain pattering against the window panes, and the sound of their mouths meeting and parting, slow and deliberate. Each touch spurring the next, the sound of it echoing through the quiet of the room. Sherlock's large hands moved, holding at John's neck, pulling him closer, his thumbs pressing at his jaw and turning him so their mouths were open and tasting.

He thought the burning in his chest would disappear when John's lips made contact, but the ache raged on, even as John reached up, parting his mouth and properly kissing him again. He followed John's lead, moving slowly and lingering at each contact their mouths made, his mind working quickly, memorizing every detail of the moment.

He memorized the gentle tugging of his curls, and the way John tightened his hold on them as their kisses deepened. He listened to John's breathing, each breath tight with restraint. He focused on the immense warmth that radiated from John as their bodies were pressed firmly against each other's. And he filed away the taste of each kiss.

John pulled away, asking softly, "is this alright?"

"It's better than," Sherlock answered.

He breathed in and let out a trembling breath against John's mouth, his eyelids fluttering shut as John pressed another kiss to his top lip, lingering and sweet. He brought his hand up to John's face, brushing his thumb over the ridge of his cheekbone, his heart pounding fiercely as John ran his tongue against his bottom lip. He couldn't keep in the soft moan that slipped through his hitched breaths, and he felt John sigh against his mouth, before kissing him deeply once again.

And John kissed and kissed. He hadn't realized his desire for Sherlock ran so deep, each kiss awakening a deeper burn within him. He nearly cried out when he felt Sherlock pulling away from his body. He opened his eyes, holding firmly to Sherlock's face and pleading, "Sherlock, please, I-"

In the filtered light John finally saw the arousal and fear that flushed Sherlock's face.

"Oh." John breathed out, a sharp exhale. He didn't want to wait any longer.

Sherlock grunted as he was twisted and pushed, bracing himself against the wall, his right hand pressed against the window as John plunged his tongue into his mouth. The chill of the glass sending soothing shivers through his intensely hot core. Sherlock's left hand was pushing against John in a vain attempt to hide his arousal. But John was good- incredibly good.

Sherlock had witnessed John's prowess with women plenty of times. Watched the way they swooned over him. And he would be lying if he said he'd never imagined himself in their place. But Sherlock could never have imagined it would be like this. John was damn good, and his hand faltered as John pushed forward. The solid mass and warmth of John's body pressed against his erection sent a violent rush of arousal through him, and he slammed his head back as he arched into the heat. He grunted and squeezed his eyes shut tight, trying to hide the trembling of his body even as John gently rocked his hips against him.

John bowed his head and pressed it to Sherlock's chest. He watched Sherlock's hand flex against the window, condensation forming from the heat of his body. The desire that dwelled inside him for so long sent tremors through his body as he rolled his hips against Sherlock. Sparks of pleasure pushed him close to orgasm and he gasped at the realization, forcing himself away from Sherlock's panting body.

"Christ, I need to stop-" John whispered.

" 'course you do," Sherlock grit through his teeth. The words coming out harsher than he'd intended. The rain pelted the window with increased fervor, and through the dimming light Sherlock watched John's brow furrow. The aching pain was seeping back into his bones. The dull sadness twisting itself against his core until he felt he would cry out from it.

"Sherlock, look at me," John tried.

Sherlock moved to step away, but John was holding his gaze. How many times had they had entire conversations through eye contact alone, Sherlock wondered. The blade twisted again. He shut his eyes against the pressing pain and sighed John's name.  
  
"Sherlock, please. Just shut up, stop being dramatic and look at me."

Sherlock opened his eyes to the look of determination and certainty and dedication and heart that he had seen John give him a hundred times before. Sherlock could only stare back.

"I want this." He pressed another gentle kiss to Sherlock's lips. "Sherlock, I want this... And I want this to last."

Their bodies were still chest to chest, John's hand cradling Sherlock's face. It took a moment for the realization of what was about to happen to sink in. He reached up, grabbing John's wrists and turning his head, placing a soft kiss against John's palm.

He breathed in deeply against his skin. Sherlock knew he was a selfish man, but could he be this selfish? John was still married, after all.

_'That's because you left,'_ Sherlock's mind supplied. _'If you had never left, he'd never had married that awful woman._ '

He turned his head against John's other hand, pressing another hot kiss to his palm, willing his emotions to be felt through touch alone. _'_ _But that doesn't change what is, or what's to come.'_

Sherlock let out another pained moan of desperation as his lips pressed harder against John's hand. But John pulled Sherlock to his mouth. He didn't want Sherlock to think about it because he didn't want to think about it. He just wanted to feel- feel Sherlock's tongue against his own and taste him. He wanted Sherlock's lean, long body. Wanted to feel him tremble and hear him moan and dig his fingers into his hips. John wanted to feel all the things he so desperately wished to feel when Sherlock was gone. Every part of Sherlock, John wanted. And now, the emptiness and sadness that dwelled in John's heart slowly ebbed away with each taste of Sherlock's mouth.

"God, John," Sherlock gasped his name and rolled his hips against John's hold.

But John held firmly to Sherlock's hip, pinning him against the wall, and growling the words against Sherlock's flushed neck, "Sherlock, careful or you'll pull at the stitches."

"Then lay me down."

John looked up at him then, his eyes steady and longing. If he were with a woman he would sweep her off her feet, bridal carry her to the bedroom, and crawl over her open body. But with Sherlock... He felt so out of his depths.

"Right," he laughed gently, before pressing another kiss to Sherlock's open mouth, "ok, I can do that." But still he hesitated, a small smile pulling at his lips.

"For Christ sake, John," Sherlock huffed, bringing John's hand to his mouth, tenderly pressing a kiss to each of his finger tips, "you know where my bedroom is."

John's smile alone would've been enough for Sherlock in that moment- brilliant and wide, creasing the skin around his eyes- it felt like the first time they'd met; when John still had faith in him.

"Right," John nodded, and they held hands as John lead them to the room.

With trembling fingers John lifted the shirt from Sherlock's chest, pulling his own off in one quick fluid motion. He laid Sherlock down, climbing over his body and tasting his skin, dragging his teeth over collar bone and sucking hot red blooms of vessels across his chest. John looked up for just a moment, a silent question, before reaching down and removing Sherlock's thin sleep pants. And then John removed his own, crawling over Sherlock and pressing their bodies together.

Sherlock trembled. He felt so close to the edge already, torn between feeling and cataloging. Every touch, every taste, every look from under heavy lidded eyes. Every detail stored away. The sound of John's breath between kisses, the way John shuddered as they pressed solid flesh against flesh- slow and deliberate. He strained to stay present, craning his neck to meet John's kisses, while simultaneously filing away the details. The way the light illuminated the tiny flecks of grey scattered in John's hair. The way John canted his body to the side, so as not to put pressure on Sherlock's wound. The way John leaned heavily on one arm- his uninjured arm. And then, the way flesh grew thin and stretched, pulled tight over a divot carved by lead and copper.

Sherlock gasped, suddenly hyper aware of his own marred flesh. His thoughts pulling him back to the time and place where each one had occurred- beatings in London's underground, starving in the Russian tundra, and then the torture that followed his capture. It had taken all of his strength not to break. There were times when the beatings were so relentless, his only escape had been deep within his mind palace, clutching onto John's image. He had dreamt of John- _dreamt of home_ \- cried to him while hidden in his mind, and confessed and apologized over and over again. And John had held him, forgave him and promised him all his love when he returned. But Sherlock was wrong, the image of John he had conjured was far more forgiving, and Sherlock had returned to burning anger.

He shuddered as he pushed the memory away.

John had pulled back, patiently waiting, aware from the precise moment Sherlock had retreated into his mind palace. "Sherlock, come back. Stay with me, here," he spoke gently, pushing the brown curls from Sherlock's face.

Sherlock looked up at him, touching his cheek for a moment before his face twisted with grief.

"'m sorry," Sherlock half sobbed the words, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I left you. I'm sorry I took so long."

"It's fine," John whispered, the apology cutting deeper than he would've thought possible.

"No, it's not. I should've told you sooner. I should've done better- been better for you- to you. I didn't want to die, I wanted to stay- with you. John, I love you. I loved you then. I didn't know it then. Moriarty did- obviously," he snarled over the last word. "He did burn the heart out of me."

"He tried," John countered, pulling Sherlock closer and kissing him, pouring himself into the kiss, "but I'm still here. And I loved you then, even if I was too much of a twat to admit it. And I love you now. I'm sorry," he kissed Sherlock's eyes, the sharp ridge of his cheek bone, the smooth flesh just below his ear, "I'm sorry I've put the blame on you, for so long. Too stubborn to admit I've loved you more."

"More?"

"So much more," John whispered, trying to hide the tremble of his voice. "So much more than I was willing to admit. More than I could comprehend. I've failed you in so many ways, Sherlock."

"No. Never." He kissed John's mouth, wrapping his arms around his head as he pulled him closer. "You've never failed me. Don't ever say such things." He breathed in hard, trying desperately to catalog every swell of emotion. "Christ, John," he took in another deep, shuddering breath as John ran his tongue over Sherlock's bottom lip.

Maybe because it was dark, and the pain of his loss was still so raw, but John felt his heart aching in a way he hadn't felt before. He had always found it easy to be romantic with a woman. He'd press a kiss, one after the other, in a slow trail from breast to naval. He'd kiss their necks and whisper sweet nothings. And it meant nothing. It was easy, and the women would tell him how lovey of a lover he was.

But with Sherlock... with Sherlock everything was infinitely more difficult. His kisses felt painful, laced with desperation and begging for forgiveness. John couldn't pull away. The difference between romance and love, and the folly of how he could've ever mistaken one for the other, was suddenly so painfully clear.

"John," Sherlock arched his back, groaning against the restraint of John's hand placed firmly on his hip, "god, John, please..." Sherlock was begging between the peppering of kisses and how could John deny him?

John buried his face against Sherlock's neck, his attempt at being sultry lost against the warmth of his flesh. "Tell me what you need."

"You. Always... always you, John." He raised his hips again, only to be held firmly in place. He squirmed, breathing deep and trying to calm his burning nerves. "You're all I've needed. All that you've been willing to give... all you've ever given... It's always been enough-- Oh god!" He gasped as John bit the curve of pale flesh merging shoulder and neck, his tongue pressing hard to chase the pain away. "You, John. I need you."

Sherlock groaned deeply, throwing his head back as John pressed their erections against each other. John stroked them both, pumping from base to tip, slicking his palm with precum before sliding his hand back down over Sherlock's length.

"Oh, John," Sherlock groaned rough and loud, flinching at the sound of his own voice. "I- I-" he bit his lip to quiet his desperate words.

But John kissed at his neck, his shoulder and chin. Nipping and tasting and trying to draw the sounds out of Sherlock, until Sherlock was gasping- deep heavy breaths tinted with pleasure.

"I want to hear you," John crooned, "let me take care of you."

"John, in my drawer- top drawer- behind the papers- mpff-" he brought his arm over his mouth, cutting short his needy cry, his body trembling as John pulled the skin up tight and then back, dipping his thumb into the bead of precum he had milked and rubbing little circles over the head of Sherlock's penis.

"What's that you were saying?"

"Oh, John-," he bucked up, groaning in protest as John's weight kept his hips pinned, "-in my drawer. Please. I want to feel you John, please." Even as he spoke the words, he turned his head away.

John kissed the blush from his neck, and reached for the drawer, pulling out a small bottle of water based lubricant. He smiled softly, pouring some generously over his fingers, warming it before pressing his palm to Sherlock's shaft.

Briefly John wondered, if Sherlock had ever touched himself to the thought of John. But somehow the thought seemed more foolish than arousing. _'_ _Of course- he's a man. Just like any other.' Not a machine, not heartless, only ever a man._ How could he have thought any thing other than this? Sherlock has always ever been just a man. A fallible, broken, battle weary and desperate man.

"In me," he heard Sherlock beg, "John, I want to feel you in me."

"Ok, Sherlock. Ok," he whispered against his skin, pressing hot kisses against the curve of his neck.

He felt Sherlock writhe under his steady touch. As a doctor, he wouldn't fail here. He wanted to show him- prove to him just how well he knew the human body- and show him just how good he could make him feel. He watched the muscles twitch along his jaw, pressing his fingers in deep, slick with lubricant, and kissed the tear that slipped past Sherlock's tightly squeezed eyes.

"Christ, John-" he gasped, finding John's mouth with his own and groaning into it. He could feel John trembling beside him, even as he pushed in deeper. He wanted so badly to arch his body, move against the swell of heat. But John held him still, twisting his fingers inside of him, pressing hot kisses to his eyes and cheek. Another strangled sob escaped him. "Oh, Christ- "  
  
"Good. You're doing so well," John soothed, keeping his lips against Sherlock's temple. "Can you lay on your side?"

He waited for Sherlock to nod, and then shifted so that he was behind him, lineing himself up behind Sherlock and peppering kisses along the nape of his neck. He pushed himself in, groaning deeply, the warmth of Sherlock enveloping him. He felt Sherlock trembling hard, struggling to breath against the sharp burn at the base of his spine.

"Christ-" Sherlock gasped, reaching back for John.

John wished desperately that he could see Sherlock's face, could kiss his cheeks and eyes and lips. "Lift your leg- just a bit."

Sherlock did as instructed, and cried out at the intense, sudden rush of pleasure. John fit so deeply. His slow deliberate thrusts filling Sherlock with a low boiling heat that seemed to simmer through his veins.

"Oh, Christ, John," Sherlock panted, groaning and arching his body as John hooked his arm beneath Sherlock's leg.

He continued his slow movements, burying his face against Sherlock's neck and tasting the skin there. All Sherlock could do was reach behind him, scramble for purchase, and cling to John. There was no way he could've prepared himself for this- the utterly soul-consuming way John made love to him- and he struggled between cataloging each breath, each kiss, each sweat-slicked thrust or remaining present to _feel_ it all. It felt as though John were making love to him in two realms. It was a disadvantage he knew he would never recover from.

"John!" Sherlock gasped, breathing hard, pinned between two worlds.

"Yes, Sherlock, I'm here," John answered.

_"I'm here love. I know you've needed this," John answered. "I'm here."_

He pushed back against John, trying to take him in deeper, twisting his hands in John's hair.

"God, Sherlock," John panted, thrusting just a little harder, watching as Sherlock's dick bobbed and leaked. "Sherlock, touch yourself," he whispered against the nape of Sherlock's neck.

He gasped a strangled sob, running his fingers through his own precum before spreading the slick substance across his dick tip.

"That's it. Imagine it's my hand. It's me touching you."

"Yes," Sherlock gasped, pulling long, slow tugs, matching John's movements behind him.

_"It is me." John answered, stroking Sherlock's cock. "Everytime you've ever touched yourself it's been me."_

"Christ, John. I- I've wanted you."

"I know," John groaned, feeling his own body grow rigid with impending release. "I've always known... god, I've always known."

Sherlock wanted so desperately to kiss John, to taste the sounds of his pleasure. He rocked his hips back, feeling sticky, thick warmth filling him. Behind him John was clinging to him, breathing hard and pressing rough kisses against Sherlock's shoulder.

"Fuck," he sighed finally, gently pulling out. "I'm sorry, I just-" He positioned himself over Sherlock, cradling Sherlock in one arm. He grabbed his chin, angling his jaw so that they were kissing deeply. And as Sherlock whimpered into his mouth, John moved his hand over Sherlock's, stroking Sherlock's cock and swallowing each breathy cry.

It didn't take long before Sherlock's entire body was shuddering, his orgasm coming slow and heavy. Thick milky strings ebbing out with each stroke of John's hand. Seconds passed that felt like hours, and still Sherlock stayed hovering on the precipice of pleasure.

Sherlock looked down at his own dick, heavy lidded and delirious with its intensity. "What did you do to me?"

John recaptured his lips, continuing his slow milking until Sherlock was keening beneath him.

"John- Fuck! John, am I-?"

His vision blurred, the reddish gray palette of the room disappearing beneath a kaleidoscope of colors and stars. He spilled across his chest and stomach, his muscles twitching beneath it's pearly sheen. And John held him through it, licking into his mouth, tasting his wanting and his pleasure and his deep desperation. John kissed and touched and gave, long into the early morning, until Sherlock felt raw from it, his body and heart aching from exertion.  
  


* * *

The evening air felt fresh and light after the day's steady rain. And when John returned home from his office, he climbed the stairs quickly, eager to be in Sherlock's arms once again.

Sherlock was sat at his chair, fingers pressed together under his chin, deep in thought.

"Hey, you-" John placed his bag down, moving to kiss Sherlock on the cheek.

But Sherlock pulled away abruptly.

For a moment John stood frozen in place.

"Am I missing something? I don't mean to come across as crude but that-" he motioned back toward Sherlock's room, "-that did happen, yes?"

Sherlock remained silent and a slow dark curl of dread began to twist in John's stomach.

"That did happen, yes?" John repeated.

"It was a mistake," Sherlock replied simply. His voice was icy and cold, distracted by whatever case file he was working in his head.

John raised his eyebrows, his voice going tight as he asked. "A _mistake_ _?_ Sherlock, not setting the morning alarm is a _mistake_. Last night wasn't a mistake. Last night was-"

"-Oh c'mon John, don't be so pedestrian! I've told you, I'm married to my work."

John was left breathless. The sudden change leaving him dizzy and struggling for air.

"Married to your work?" John tried to keep his voice steady, anger and sadness fighting for dominance in his mind. "Married-"

"Yes. I'm sure we've discussed this before. Really, John, do try to keep up."

John knit his brow in frustration. He could feel his throat growing tight and his heart aching in a way that felt so familiar to the way it did when he watched Sherlock jump. The word slipped from his lips before he could stop it, "please."

For a long while Sherlock didn't speak, until finally, "John you- you are a married man-"

"Sherlock, stop. Just stop, please." He clenched his jaw to stop the tears from brimming over, the sadness suddenly overtaking him. 

"You're going to have a baby," the words felt like gravel in his throat, "you have a fa- family. You have to go back. This- " he gestured between the two of them, "it- won't work out. It, um, it can't work out. Not for us."

John breathed in deep, shaking his head in anger. "No." He bit at the inside of his cheek to keep his voice steady. "Last night- no I don't-- I don't believe you. I don't-" He lowered his voice to his soldier's whisper. "Is it Moriarty? Is he listening? Do you--" he stopped talking, and raised his eyebrows, begging for confirmation.

The seconds passed without a word and he blinked as the first of his tears fell, burning little tracks downs his cheek. He hesitated, the words caught in his throat before he was able to choke them out, "don't leave me again."

For a moment the facade broke, and the glistening behind Sherlock's eyes welled up. He tried to slide the mask of indifference back in place, but the pain in John's voice wouldn't let him. Sherlock let them fall freely. Heavy with heartbreak.

"I can't do it, John. The whole child and baggage thing." Sherlock lifted his chin in defiance. "I'm married to my work, you know that." Even as he spoke his body betrayed him, face wet and lips trembling.

John's face twisted in utter confusion and in a final act of desperation he moved forward and pressed his lips to Sherlock's.

"Tell me it wasn't real. Tell me this isn't what you want." He listened to Sherlock's pained hitch of breath. "I don't know what game you're playing at..."

He kissed Sherlock's mouth again, and then again, drawing out little huffs from Sherlock's parted lips, until Sherlock was meeting his mouth equally, kissing hard, pulling at his face and hair. He was nearly sobbing with his desperation.

"Please, tell me what going on," John whispered when Sherlock pressed their foreheads together. Tears were still steadily making their way down Sherlock's reddened cheeks, falling from his chin and soaking into his navy buttonup.

"She'll abort the baby, John. If you stay with me--" his face twisted with sadness. The cold mask fully slipped away. "She was here this morning. She told me she would."

"But she's already in her second tri-- no sane doctor is going to abort a healthy baby in the second tri." But even as he said it, panic surged through him and he reached for his coat.

Sherlock brought his fist to his mouth, biting hard against his knuckle as he came to terms with the consequences of their sin. He deserved punishment-- yes. But John? The baby? Of course this would happen, and he was foolish enough to not see. He watched through his tears as John left, the door slamming behind him in his hurry.

A sharp pain flared through his chest, worse than any bullet, and a defeated cry ripped itself from his lungs. He felt himself crumple, knees hitting the floor before the rest of his body curled in on itself. He cried freely, ugly snarling sobs that tore the breath from him. It ached. His heart ached in a way he'd never felt before, in a way that made him wish he'd had heeded his brother's warnings about love.

But then, he heard the sound of John's footfall in the distance, climbing up the stairs two at a time. The door slammed shut behind him.

"No-" John knelt beside him, straightening his shoulders- "no, I won't leave you. We'll figure this out." He picked Sherlock up from his shoulders, pushing the hair from Sherlock's face, "you're the wisest man I know. I know we'll figure this out. Whatever it takes, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked absolutely terrified. "What if I can't John? What if I lose, and I let you down again?"

"You won't. Sherlock, look at me. Whatever it takes." He kissed Sherlock softly, a gentle brush of their lips. "I'm done losing you."

"I'm not worth the loss of your baby John, go back to her. It's not worth the risk- please." He still trembled in fear as he spoke, "I can't bear the thought of -"

"Then don't think it!" John cut in. He kissed Sherlock long and hard, wiping the tears from his redened cheeks.

"You're the wisest- " he kissed his eyes.

"and the bravest-" across his temple.

"and whatever it takes-" down the edge of his jaw, and the slope of his neck, until he could bury his face against Sherlock's shoulder. "I can't lose you again, Sherlock." He spoke so softly, that it seemed the words were no longer for Sherlock's ears. "It would break me. We won't lose the baby. I know we'll figure this out."

"Ok," Sherlock sniffeled, kissing John softly. "Let the game begin."


End file.
